


Scars to Your Beautiful

by slothy_girl



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 02:03:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8825953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slothy_girl/pseuds/slothy_girl
Summary: Everyone has scars, but Jacob doesn't think he's ever met anyone as proud of theirs as Newt is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Found an interview where Eddie Redmayne discussed a cut scene from the movie and how it showed off Newt’s many scars, so it got me thinking. If you’re interested, here it is!  
> https://www.pottermore.com/news/fantastic-beasts-interview-series-eddie-redmayne
> 
> Thank you to the light of my life, my wonderful beta, Jennifer <3
> 
> Title from Alessia Cara’s song “Scars to Your Beautiful”

When Jacob allows himself to think about it, particularly when he is in one of his more brooding moods (few and far between, sure, but he has been known to fall into one on occasion), he finds that scars are a lot like fingerprints. Scars have stories to tell just as fingerprints tell the story of one’s existence, and they are both utterly unique to their owner. While the cause for some scars may be similar from one person or another, how they got it, the shape of it, the size, isn’t universal.

A singular experience for such an individual existence.

And almost everyone has at least one, barring most newborn infants, Jacob supposes, though even they sometimes have them for one reason or another (emergency surgery perhaps, and then of course there’s circumcision). Some have only a few, by some stroke of luck and maybe a firm, guiding hand to keep them on the straight and narrow.

Jacob falls into this category.

Most of them are faded little marks, seemingly delicate and a shade paler than the rest of him: a puckered zigzag on his arm, about two inches long, from where bone had torn through the skin when he had fallen out of a tree. A small, peculiar dent on his forehead, right near his hair line, that he can’t account for, but which he, for those two horrible years after the war, liked to look to occasionally for a point of focus as he talked himself up from the depressive spiral his life had become (because the horrendous monotony of the canning factory was not forever, and his dreams for a bakery would hopefully someday come to fruition, and then he would be happy. Right?). A wrinkled stripe on the side of his wrist from where his oven mitt hadn’t protected him the first time he baked, nervous and excited under his _babcia’s_ watchful gaze.

(He can still remember the look of absolute horror that had passed over her face when she’d realized what had happened. He’d never seen her move so quickly, never realized how much strength she still had in those fragile, old bones as she dragged him over to the sink to rinse cold water over the burn. He’d laughed, the pain eclipsed by the sheer hilarity of the situation, and it wasn’t long until she had joined in.

“Good Lord, don’t do that to me, _słoneczko_ ,” she said, smacking him on the shoulder.

When he’s feeling sad and quiet and missing her, he likes to rub his thumb over it, a small thread to his past, to her.)

The only one he’d ever say he dislikes, because though he doesn’t necessarily like his scars, he’s not exactly neutral either, is the bleached starburst where a bullet grazed his calf. He has enough memories of the war to last him a lifetime, and a reminder on his skin only makes the experiences feel closer, more present. And he knows he’s lucky to have escaped with only that, but still.

Others, rather unluckily, have bodies that are littered with them, their lives and the obstacles they’ve faced written into the flesh of their skins like a book, to be read by inquiring eyes and gentle hands.

Jacob has known only a few who were so heavily afflicted, and most he met during and after the war.

(There was someone in his platoon, a man by the name of Nathaniel Campbell, short and bright with freckles that Jacob—ashamed and embarrassed—liked to connect like stars with his fingers, but who had the best aim he’d ever seen. They were close, as men fighting a seemingly endless battle filled with violence and death can be, where gentle touches and tender caresses could be hard to come by. At least, that’s what Jacob told himself for the longest time, and so he knew Nathanial before, when all he had for scars was a little swatch of skin on his thigh from a childhood accident.

He knew him after too, for a short while, when he was sallow and dulled and in pain, artillery scars angry red slashes through the constellations Jacob had once so painstakingly plotted out.)

(If there was one thing that the war had taught him, the one thing that has stuck with him even years later, it’s that scars aren’t just worn on the body, visible symbols and warnings all at once—no, it’s the ones you can’t see, the one’s in your head, you have to worry about more.)

And then there’s Newt.

 

 

Now, most of the people he’s known throughout his life would be hesitant to show off a single scar if they can help it. Women, he’s learned, because they are often seen as ugly interruptions on otherwise beautiful skin, markers against their beauty and their eligibility for a potential partner. Utterly absurd, but there it is. Men, on the other hand, hide them because scars are some sign of weakness, of vulnerability. And if there’s one thing a fellow doesn’t want to feel, it’s vulnerable. Well, unless it’s to impress a potential lady friend, Jacob thinks, but he finds it strange, the opposing duality therein, that it’s attractive for men to have them, as long they don’t heavily impair the man’s looks, but not for women in any capacity.

(Of the little he remembers of his late father, the way he was always careful to hide the ugly, knarled stretch of skin that took up most of his side, even when he was feeling poorly and weak and needed Jacob and _babcia_ _’s_ help to get dressed in the mornings and evenings, how sharp and prickly he would get if either of them caught a glimpse and accidently stared, has always stuck with Jacob. Even fellows from the canning factory took steps to hide the more jagged, unwanted scars with long sleeves and gloves and hats. What ones they couldn’t hide, they refused to acknowledge and often took offense if someone else broke code and asked about it.

And his _babcia_ had a few scars that he knew of, and probably some he didn’t, mostly related to cooking and baking and menial tasks she’d done over the years. But there was one scar in particular that had always caught his attention: a fleshy dot, the size of a dime on the soft inside of her elbow, a cigarette burn from her teenage years, courtesy of some ditzy _kurwa_ who thought she could pull one over his _babcia_. The story of her revenge was one of his favorite bed time stories growing up.)

(He doesn’t know if his mother had any scars. None of the pictures he has of her can tell him, and the only two people who could have are long since buried in the ground.)

But Newt isn’t like most people he’s ever known.

No, Newt wears his scars with pride. All of them.

“They’re an occupational hazard,” he said once, vaguely defensive, like he thought Jacob might be making fun of him, when really Jacob had just finally gathered the courage to inquire after them. They had been taking a break from feeding all of Newt’s various creatures, using it as an opportunity to eat themselves, going through the pastries Jacob had baked just that morning.

“Ah, sorry, buddy—I didn’t mean to, to offend—“

“You didn’t offend me,” Newt said, his expression going contemplative, his eyes flitting to Jacob’s and away.

It had been six years, give or take, since he had first met the man and was sucked into an evening of magic and adventure like none other than he’d ever experienced. Six years since he was forced to forget everything except the cool kiss of rain on his face and a lurking sadness in the pit of his stomach he couldn’t explain. Six years since he opened his beloved bakery thanks to silver shells gifted to him from a fleetingly familiar figure, since a beautiful blonde came to visit and everything came crashing back into him like a wave, like he never forgot. And since then, his life had been filled with the impossible, the unexpected and magical. Something new and exciting, and sometimes absolutely terrifying, almost every day. It’s been years of learning his place among people who can make things happen with a flick of a wand and a couple words, of navigating through what he thought he knew about himself in this new world and finally coming to terms with it.

And Queenie was such a bright point in the beginning, for those first couple years, a beautiful shining star, all endearments and gentle smiles and a thin hooked scar right above her knee that he liked to stroke his fingers over when they would sit by the fire in the apartment she shared with Tina, talking or reading or him watching her do magic. She was so easy to fall in love with, like baking donuts and drinking hot cocoa on cold nights, worn in and familiar. For all that they were good together though, for all the joy and laughter they brought to each other, there was just something that didn’t match up.

“We’re both too alike, in the ways that matter, I think,” Queenie whispered to him one night, facing each other in bed, their hands clasped between them. “We give and give, but sometimes we need someone who will, well, not take, but—yes, that’s it exactly, honey.”

“Someone a little more selfish?” He asked quietly, just to clarify, because sometimes it’s hard to be sure what thought she had latched on to. “Someone to remind us it’s okay to be selfish too sometimes?”

“Yes.”

And then some time later, there was Newt, a deceptively overwhelming force despite his softer countenance, long and lean with freckles in the shapes of constellations—because of course— that made his fingers itch to touch and a laugh that's loud and ridiculous when he’s caught unawares, and Jacob made it his mission to draw it out whenever he could. Falling in love with him was a slow descent into madness that Jacob didn't realize had happened until it was far too late, until it was just as integral to his being as his passion for baking and his optimistic outlook on life. And on the day he realized, he took a good long look at himself, focused on that little dent on his forehead, and decided he wasn’t going to let this ruin him. People have gone to ruin for less, for war, for hatred, for grief, and in a world where magic existed, what did it matter who he loved?

He hadn’t known if Newt felt the same, but he thought he might just give it a try anyway. Maybe. The worst he could do was say no, after all.

(Looking back, he needn’t have worried.)

The corner of Newt’s mouth quirked, his eyes fond under the floof of his hair, as he absentmindedly ran his fingers over a vivid scratch on his forearm. It disappeared into the edge of his rolled sleeve, and Jacob wanted to ask where it came from, to get such a look, but he held his tongue.

Later.

Then he tapped Jacob lightly on the hand, his touch lingering for a second. “Back to work, then.” And he stood up, traipsing back over to finish feeding the thestral foals (simultaneously the creepiest and most amazing creatures he’s ever seen) they’re transporting, murmuring comforting things to them as he did to all of his creatures, the hem of his too short pants riding up to show his ridiculous patterned socks, a gift from Queenie when they last visited her and Tina a couple weeks ago. It had been a while since they last saw the girls, and New York was on their way to California in search of a particular species of Bowtruckle Newt wanted to add to the newest edition of his _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_. Jacob hadn’t thought love and traveling would ever go hand in hand for him, not after the war, where traveling was always a precursor to violence, but here he was.

He couldn’t help but smile and shake his head, warmth spreading in his chest as he joined the man he called home.

 

 

Eventually, he does ask about it, a year or so after that first inquiry and just a few months since he finally threw caution to the wind and asked Newt to step out with him.

(And wasn’t that an utterly nerve-wracking and awkward as hell experience that Jacob never wants to happen again. Ever. He isn’t exactly proficient in the ways of dating, having only done so with a small hand full of women before the war and Queenie, much less with a man, not when the only thing close to a relationship he’d had with a fella was shaded by blood and violence. So, no, he doesn’t really count that. And then there’s Newt, who has even less experience with dating and human social interactions besides. Between the two of them, this can lead to misunderstandings very quickly.

“So, you’re saying you don’t want to travel with me anymore?” Newt had asked, voice clipped, his face blank save for the thinning of his mouth. He’d put down the empty vial he had been fidgeting with at some point during the conversation in favor of crossing his arms, his shoulders inching up to his ears. He looked for all the world like he was a second away from just disappearing, which, Jacob was very consciously aware, was something he could actually do. Already, it felt like a distance, a barrier, had been erected between them, only made worse by the fact that Newt refused to even look at him, only around or near him in the workshop he kept in his suitcase.

“No, that’s not. No! Just— damn it.” So, to put them both out of their misery and to be as clear as possible, because it couldn’t possibly get any worse than this, Jacob grabbed the ridiculous man by his neck, his hands shaking almost imperceptivity, and dragged him down to capture his mouth in a kiss.

Which worked about as well as one would expect.

His mouth was stiff and unyielding, and Jacob felt the rigid set of his neck under his fingers, the tenseness of muscle and tendon, and for a moment, he regretted having even brought it up. His heart was pounding and he could feel the tight curl of fear in his stomach. He needed to stop this, to pull away and just apologize. God, why was he so foolish—

But, like a switch being flipped, Newt softened under his touch, those beautiful scarred hands reaching up to cup his face, frantically crowding closer, closer like he thought this might stop, like this might be taken away, until Jacob was summarily pinned against the hard edge of Newt’s work desk. There was little room left between them, their chests pleated together, warm and solid. And he could not help but part his lips to catch better against Newt’s own, to tangle his fingers in the curled hair at his nape and tug lightly when the man seemed to melt into him more for it, leaning heavily against him like Jacob was all that was keeping him standing.

He turned his head to bring the kiss deeper, to chase the smile he could feel lurking in the corner of the magizoologist’s mouth, except they apparently had the same thought because their noses bumped and smushed awkwardly. This was ridiculous, so utterly, incredibly amazing that Jacob had to pull away and laugh lest his heart explode with it.

“Wait, no, come back here,” Newt muttered, eyes closed and his brow furrowed as if he was solving a particularly difficult problem, making silly humming noises once he had their mouths together again as they explored all the ways their mouths and bodies could fit.)

(It took some fumbling on both their parts, but they get it perfectly right eventually.)

They’re curled up in front of the fireplace in Newt’s suitcase workshop on the thick rug Jacob had bought when they were in Norway tracking down and observing the habits of a young Norwegian Ridgeback. Newt is absently tapping rhythms into Jacob’s side as he watches the fire flicker and sway, never able to completely stop moving, not even when he’s sleepy and deep in thought like this.

“So, where did you get this one?” Jacob asks softly, fingers tracing along the line on Newt’s forearm. Newt hums and the taps turn into tentative, idle strokes.

“From Niffler, believe it or not,” he says after a moment, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. Jacob can’t help but smile back in response. “It’s from when I first brought him in.”

And it’s a tale of adventure as much as the ones Jacob is still trying to get used to, Newt’s voice warm and low as he leads him along through the story of how he once stumbled upon an illegal fur trading cartel in the underbelly of the Scottish highlands, only pausing long enough to answer Jacob’s questions of clarification because though No-Majs (“Muggles,” Newt mutters under his breath) aren’t as looked down on, in some ways, in Britain than in America, that doesn’t mean Newt doesn’t sometimes forget that Jacob hasn’t been by his side all along, that there are still things he doesn’t know, for all that he has learned and retained such a great deal.

(“It’s like you’re a little bit magical yourself,” he mumbled almost incoherently once, buried warm into the curve of Jacob’s side, right on the edge of sleep.

Jacob was never happier to have still been awake at that moment.)

After that, it’s like a floodgate opening.

“What about this one? Tell me about this one?” Jacob asks him, thumbing over the teeth marks on his hand, the pock marks on his elbow, over old bites and scratches and burns, over knarled, ropey scars and smooth, pale ones. He drags Newt’s sweater up and off (an old, threadbare thing that was once Jacob’s, knitted by his _babcia_ so long ago, but has since been reclaimed by the magizoologist for whenever he’s feeling too bothered to put on a proper button up and vest. Not that Jacob minds.) when he’s run out of them on his arms, easing off his pants to get at the marks he’s seen there too.

And for every single scar, Newt patiently explains the nature and story behind each one, each creature in passionate, excited, rambling detail. For him, every scar is more an accomplishment, a beautiful reminder of meetings and partings and days, weeks, months, years of watching and interacting and nurturing the beautiful creatures he’s dedicated his life too, never to be a shameful secret hidden away with regret.

(Even the ones from the war, from the Ukrainian Ironbellies he had worked with to help in the efforts on the Eastern front, even the ones done by human hands, or wands, have more to do with Newt’s memories of whatever creature he was saving or protecting or learning about than the malevolent force that had caused them.)

It’s beautiful and amazing, and Jacob can feel, with every story shared like secrets only he will get to know, his heart expanding in his chest with the sheer fondness he has for this man, this crazy, eccentric, wonderful man. So he tells him so, despite the flush he can feel heating his face.

Newt’s smile turns crooked and bashful, and he ducks his head down, never able to take a compliment when it’s honest and sincere.

“What about this one?” Newt asks suddenly, his fingers wrapping fire brand hot around the bend of Jacob’s wrist, a tether right over that first baking burn he has. Jacob’s heart skips a beat.

“Ah, that old thing? Well—“ And Jacob tells him, shares his own stories and memories, making up widely exaggerated and blatantly untrue tales for the few he can’t remember just to hear the incredulous laugh Newt can’t help, and he savors having that intense focus on him, those hands tracing his scars, because he’s definitely a giver, always has been and always will be, but he’s learning to let himself be selfish too.

END

**Author's Note:**

> The last name Kowalski is of Polish origin, and considering the time period and the fact that New York City was/is such a huge melting pot (for lack of better words) of people from different countries, I don’t think it would be too outlandish for him to have a Polish immigrant grandmother.
> 
> Polish Translations (let me know if anything is wrong; I’d be happy to fix it!):  
> -babcia means “grandmother,” pronounced “bab-cha”  
> -słoneczko means “sunshine,” which is said to be an endearment (both familial and otherwise), pronounced “swoh-netch-koh”  
> -kurwa means “bitch/whore” (and other things) and is one of the most commonly used insults, pronounced “core-va”
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
